


Light breaks where no sun shines

by Blanquette



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Dreams, Dullahan - Freeform, Home, M/M, Magical Realism, One Shot, Plants, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 18:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16728630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blanquette/pseuds/Blanquette
Summary: Changkyun's dreams spill over sometimes.





	Light breaks where no sun shines

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% self-indulging I just liked Changkyun's character in my previous one shot, [There are windchimes and the smell of lemons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16505243), (that you don't need to read to understand this one) and wanted to do more with his character.  
> Also I am procrastinating my WIPs and then I started procrastinating this one too so it took me actually forever to get it done. I have issues.  
> Anyway enjoy :'D

**1.**

Changkyun’s dreams spill over sometimes. Soft shadows that cling to the corners of his room, elusive shapes dancing in front of his sleepy eyes. An imprint, too, half-formed emotions lingering in his thoughts for the rest of the day. It’s good, sometimes. Sometimes it’s warm and it smells like summer, like soft days spent lying in the grass, weightless and easy. Sometimes it’s different. Sometimes he wakes up with clammy skin and darkness curling on his chest. Sometimes it smells of decay and there’s ashes on his tongue, glow worms in his head lightning a path he’s unwilling to tread. He knows, what awaits him there, under a purple sky weighting heavy over a field of bones. And so, he stays on the threshold, never crossing beyond. That is, until he isn’t given a choice anymore.

 

**2.**

When the dreams hang too heavy upon his eyelids, he forsakes sleep in favor of running away. It’s better when it rained, the streetlights reflecting on the macadam like a slightly wrong echo of the world. Sometimes he feels like he could fall through, were he to go fast enough. And so he pushes the old motorcycle beyond reason, the wind whipping his hair and watering his eyes; just a little faster and he will fall through, to a place of blurry lights and watery paths.

A bubbly feeling always bursts in his chest then, his skin feeling too tight to contain all that he is. There’s something pushing at the seams, something bright and wild that only blooms in these moments where he’s toeing on the edge of the world. The night is kind to him, always has been; the moon shines bright and the way is clear, up on a bridge overlooking the river. The wind is stronger there, and the other end seems too far away for him to ever reach. He’s the only one awake in the world, or so it seems; the dark waters on either side tell him so, he’s the only one awake in the world and were he to go a little faster, he could fall through.

Changkyun stands up on the bike’s footrests, hands barely clutching at the handlebars, the wind going through him as if he was a ghost. Maybe he is, a ghost of swift winds and tattered dreams. But it is fine, like this, it is okay; he’s tasting eternity on the tip of his tongue.

And then, the boy crashes into him. Or he crashes into the boy, he doesn’t know. But the wind leaves him and there’s the smell of burnt rubber and there’s pain, and something dark fills his throat as the stars turn into glow worms. There’s shadows, closing over him, and the voice calling his name isn’t loud enough, the hand around his not strong enough. Changkyun’s slipping, with ashes on his tongue and a purple sky reflected in his eyes.

 

**3.**

It’s neither warm nor cold, neither dark nor bright. There’s no sun, in the sky, no moon either. He tries to move a limb, and finds out he cannot. He’s comfortable, though, his body sinking in a bed of greyish moss that cradles him like something precious. Strangely, he is not scared. When he looks within himself, there is nothing to be found; no heart beating against his ribs, no fear, either, no sorrow. And so, he waits. He waits, until a brisk wind rises, shadows riding on its tail. They slither around him, exchanging soft murmurs as they tangle in his hair, and they sing soft songs with a thousand voices. He waits, until he’s allowed to see.

There’s a yew tree, standing in the field of bones, and he’s resting amongst its roots. Its branches twist and bend towards the purple sky as if they wished to scar it, draw something there, and Changkyun wishes for the sun. It smells like rain, like earth. But there is nothing to be felt, and so he stares up at the yew tree, and the tree makes him see.

 

**4.**

He’s standing in an empty house. It’s old, Changkyun can feel it. Old and knowing, something breathing there that saw centuries crumbling into dust. He should be scared, he knows, as he treads through dark rooms that would be empty if not for the plants growing there. Small flowers he doesn’t know the name of covering the floors, ivy running over the walls, hiding small doors and high staircases. He treads carefully, amongst rotting leaves and crumbling walls. He spends a long time, in the house. A dream with no beginning nor end, and sometimes the house changes.

Sometimes it’s young and bright, rooms full of books and flowers in bloom, and Changkyun loves it, like this. It’s warm and pleasant, there’s the smell of honey and shy shadows hiding in the corners; it reminds him of his summer dreams, and he sits quietly at a small table in a homey kitchen, content. But the house always changes, and summer turns into winter, and the walls grow cold. He gets up, then, and he starts walking again, a ghost in a dream.

Changkyun spends a long time, in the house, a very long time, until every room becomes part of him. Were he to sit on the ground he would turn to ashes and dust, he knows, disappear within the cracks of the wooden floor and maybe a plant would bloom where he stood. He would like it, he thinks, but instead he keeps walking, from room to room, down familiar paths and up crumbling staircases. But the house always changes.

This time, it shows him a secret, and maybe until then it was just learning to trust.

The staircase leads him to a small corridor he has never seen, and there’s a door, covered in ivy. It parts softly at his approach, caressing his clothes as if greeting an old friend. There’s a warning, in there, too. A sorrowful plea. When he steps into the room he smells rain and forests, and there’s a man, sleeping on a bed of white blossoms, a book open on his chest. Changkyun takes a small step, and that’s when he notices them, the shadows, pooling around the man, around himself, coming from every corner of the house and beyond. Their sighs feel like a breeze and something stirs within him, something barely noticeable but growing, something of sadness and regret. When he notices the small death caps amongst the white blossoms, he understands. The man isn’t sleeping; he is dead.

A wailing fills the room then, and the stirring in his belly explodes against his ribs in a wave of sorrow that brings him to his knees. And he’s wailing, too, a broken voice amongst thousand others coming from every shadow. It’s too much, after not feeling for so long, too much for his heart that isn’t beating anymore, and so he cries over the dead man, amongst the shadows and the ashes of the small room.

 

**5.**

It’s another lifetime before Changkyun opens his eyes again, and the sky is of purple ink and there’s the yew tree, looking down at him, sinking in his bed of moss. The sorrow is still there, etched deep in his bones, pushing against his ribs like so many thorns and he would rip it out if he could. The shadows must know, as they press against him with soft sighs and something like a plea. He understands, then, that what he saw has yet to pass, but it will, surely, unless. Unless he finds his place amongst the old walls and the warm shadows, and a longing sigh escapes his lips.

But there is no heart beating in its cage, no warm blood coursing in his veins; nothing is left, and the smell of decay always came from him – a warning, but too late, too late.

The wind shifts, and small yellow flowers bloom amongst his bed of moss, life-everlasting that crown his head in gold. Something spills inside him, then; something warm and gentle. He’s sinking, sinking further into the bed of moss, the yew tree swaying overhead while shadows dance over his body, until there is nothing left of him.

He wakes up in a bed with the smell of rain.

 

**6.**

The window on the far wall has been left slightly ajar and Changkyun can hear the rain, a soft pitter-patter down onto hard ground. All is white, in the room, the sheets and the floor and the walls, and he’s been in the dark for so long it hurts his eyes.

There’s someone else, in the room with him, someone asleep in an uncomfortable chair. His hair is hiding his face, but Changkyun knows him all the same – he smells of burnt rubber and something else, something dark that tastes heavy on his tongue.

Changkyun stirs, and that is enough to wake the sleeper. The man blinks at him with dark eyes and his voice is soft but his words are not.

“You should have died.”

It is true, Changkyun thinks, he should have died, and maybe he did, there under the yew tree. But his use hadn’t run its course, then.

“I think I did.”

The man tilts his head, thoughtful, and appraises him for too long a time. Changkyun remains perfectly still, waiting.

“Changkyun, yeah? Im Changkyun.”

“How do you know my name?”

The man shrugs as if the question wasn’t of importance. He leans forward, elbows planted on his knees, and his eyes are too dark for such a face.

“How did you come back? No one ever comes back.”

Changkyun bites his lips, and he understands, then. The man is of the shadows and the purple sky, he’s the winter dreams smelling of decay, and the red caps growing amongst the white blossoms. But Changkyun feels no fear, no threat, as the man watches him with detached curiosity. So, he tells him.

“I am not sure. There was a tree, and shadows, and a field of bones. I spent a very long time in a house. Sometimes it was young and warm, sometimes its walls were crumbling and it smelled of rotting leaves. I couldn’t stop walking, or I would have disappeared between the cracks. I saw a man, there, and he was dead, but in this world he is not, as his death has yet to pass. I think they want me to find him, the tree and the bones and the shadows. They want me to find him, and that’s how I came back. They didn’t want to keep me.”

The man reclines in his seat and there’s surprise in his face, eyebrows hiking up. He looks younger, like this, but still his eyes betray him; they seem older than the world itself, and maybe they are.

“The yew tree chose you?”

“You know it?”

“I know of it. I’ve never been there, I think.”

“You didn’t? But aren’t you – aren’t you something like death?”

The man laughs, and it’s strangely warm and pleasant. The sound resonates in the void of Changkyun’s chest and something tight gives way, something of the loneliness he felt during his time in the house.

“I’m not. Something like it, maybe.”

“You knew my name.”

“I know a lot of things.”

“Do you know the house? Or the man.”

The man tilts his head again, and Changkyun wonders if it’s a conscious gesture, or just something he does whenever he thinks.

“Why were you going this fast on the highway?”

The question takes him by surprise and Changkyun looks down at his hands, folded over the neatly pressed sheets of his hospital bed.

“I just. I like it. I was running away.”

“From what?”

“Dreams.”

“What kind of dreams?”

“I don’t know. But there are shadows, when I wake up, and sometimes it tastes like ashes and death. When I don’t want to sleep, I take a ride.”

The man nods, then, as if Changkyun’s simple words had a greater meaning than he intended. Maybe they do, maybe the strange eyes can see the lonely truth behind them.

“I don’t know where the house is. I don’t know who the man is, either, but I will, when his time nears.”

“Could you tell me, then?”

The man blinks, and there’s centuries in his eyes.

“Yeah, okay. I will tell you, Im Changkyun.”

 

**7.**

Changkyun leaves the hospital being called a miracle. He’s far from feeling like one, though; there’s dread making a home between his ribs, cobwebs in his lungs making it hard to breath. In his dreams, he’s back in the house, and the leaves are still rotting and the man is still dead. When he wakes up, the shadows peer at him from every corner and he knows their pleas, their worries crashing against him like a tidal wave pulling him under. But the dreams tell him nothing more, and when he finds himself in the small room night after night, he closes his eyes and turns his back on the body resting upon the bed of flowers. An unbearable loneliness seeps into him, slowly ousting the marrow of his bones.

 

**8.**

The man’s name is Wonho. Changkyun learns it on a cold day, as he sits opposite him in a too impersonal coffee shop.

“Still nothing?”

Wonho shakes his head and Changkyun watches the movement of the man’s hair, spilled as he is on the square table, head resting on his arm.

“What if I never find him? What if he dies.”

“What kills him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

There’s something new in the man’s eyes, something akin to pity, or compassion, maybe; it lights a shaky light in their inky depths. His body seems too big for the little chair he’s sitting on, and Changkyun wonders how someone so imposing can seem so delicate. He wants to reach out and touch, feel if the man is warm or as cold as he himself feels. Cold, always cold, and the dreams that won’t leave him – Changkyun thinks that if the ride didn’t kill him, this surely will, and something more is lost to the growing pit inside of him.

“Do you think the tree will call me back, if I fail?”

“Maybe it will call you back if you succeed, too.”

“Gee, what a nice thought to have.”

Wonho laughs, and his smile is big and bright; Changkyun stares until it sizzles out as the man sobers up, a question on his lips.

“How is it?”

“How is what?”

“Dying.”

Changkyun lifts his head slightly, as Wonho is looking at him with interest, something almost eager in his face. So Changkyun thinks hard, about the tree and the house and the field of bones, and really, it wasn’t so bad.

“It isn’t so terrible. I wasn’t scared. It’s not cold, like everyone thinks. It’s not warm, either. It just is. But I was comfortable, and the shadows took care of me. They sang, and I couldn’t understand, but it was soft and nice. It smelled like rain, and something deeper. I felt nothing, though. Not until I dreamt of the house and I saw the man, and the red caps.”

“I thought it would be scary, or painful. I worry, sometimes, about the people I see.”

They fall silent as a waitress with an empty smile puts two mugs on their table. Changkyun drinks coffee, a losing bid at warding off sleep, but Wonho chose something smelling of elderflower, and he burns his tongue when he doesn’t wait long enough. Changkyun smiles, and the man looks sheepish; too young, again, too young for such weariness.

“You see people dying?”

“Sometimes, I stop somewhere, and I just know, someone is going to die here.”

“Are you some sort of dark omen?”

“A dark omen? Surely. There is only death, wherever I go. And there is nothing I can do. I know their name, but when I call out, I am too late, always too late. So I stay with them, until it is over; I watch them as they pass and I hope it is less scary, that way, less lonely.”

Changkyun tilts his head and he remembers something, then, something of his own passing.

“You held my hand.”

“I did.”

“I heard you call my name, but I was already too far.”

“It’s okay. You came back, in the end. You’re the first one.”

Changkyun smiles, and it’s frayed at the edges but it needs to be enough. Wonho takes a sip of his flowery tea and smiles back, bright and genuine, something that threatens to split his face in half, something that brings warmth to Changkyun’s withered heart.

“Let’s go on a ride.”

 

**9.**

Seated at the back of the man’s motorcycle, Changkyun’s closes his eyes and lets the wind take possession of his being. It’s better, when he’s not driving, he realizes. It’s better, when he’s splattered against a broad back and maybe he could melt into it if he tried. He won’t open his eyes, and the streetlights passing them by reflects strangely on the back of his eyelids, the crisp night air filling his lungs and chasing the cobwebs hanging there.

It’s better, when he’s not driving, and he stands up on the footrests, clutching strong shoulders instead of shaky handlebars, and he hears a shout, a laugh, and he’s smiling, eyes finally opening on the vast expanse of the river; they’re riding over yet another bridge and maybe he should be scared but he’s not, he’s bursting again; and so he screams, and he’s laughing, and crying, too, maybe, throwing things out of himself that shouldn’t be rotting there.

They crossed the bridge, too fast, screaming and laughing like ghouls on a wild hunt, and Changkyun is about to sit back down when the bike brutally stops and he almost topples over with a yelp.

“The hell?”

“It’s there.”

“What?”

“It’s there. The place you’re looking for.”

Changkyun swallows back the invectives falling from his lips and keeps silent, staring at the small building Wonho is looking at. He doesn’t lose a second, then, scrambling off the bike, almost tripping in his haste. Wonho grabs him before he can hurt himself, and there’s dread in his old eyes.

“Changkyun. Changkyun, I’m always too late.”

It almost hurts, where Wonho is grabbing at his bicep, and Changkyun knows this worry; he shares it.

“It’s okay, I’m sure it is. I was warned, I’ll prevent it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, I just will.”

Wonho bites his lips, and releases Changkyun without looking at him.

“His name is – his name is Yoo Kihyun. I will wait here. I don’t want to see.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll – I’ll go, then.”

There’s too much hesitation in his voice, too much worry, his body feeling limp and spineless. But Changkyun still goes, sparing a last look at the man on the bike, as if he could draw strength from him, from his big hands and square shoulders. But there is nothing, nothing to take; there’s too much fear between them for any kind of comfort. And so, he turns his back on him, and drags himself to the door.

 

**10.**

The building Changkyun knocks on is small and square, two stories up and a peeling façade. The one he intrudes in has wooden floors and mullioned widows opening on a scenery he doesn’t recognize. And it’s cold, so very cold. The house is old, then, spilling out of Changkyun’s winter dreams with the same worry, the same loneliness. He steps in cautiously, and the bellwort overflowing from a pot hanging near the door brushes his hair as he does. It’s quiet, too much so; the dark pit within him grows and eats the last of the light.

He knows where to go, he followed the path enough times. The staircase past the kitchen, the dark corridor, and the small door, hidden by ivy. The leaves know him, and they part as he passes, clinging to his clothes as they did in the dream.  Changkyun steps into the room and it smells like rain and forests, and there’s a man, sleeping on a tired couch covered in white blossoms, a book open on his chest. Changkyun stares, breath caught in the cobwebs of his lungs, and it’s not until soft shadows flow from hidden corners that he takes another step, shielded by darkness.

There is no red, amongst the white of the flowers. The shadows leave him to swirl around the man, and Changkyun follows to kneel beside him, finally setting his gaze upon his face. There’s anise tangling in his dark hair, weaving a strange wreath of white flowers upon his head and his chest is rising but this is still too much of a funeral. Changkyun can feel the silent plea of the shadows around them, can see the plants in the room stir towards him, but there is no answer when he calls the man’s name.

The man is sleeping, face gaunt but peaceful, and when Changkyun grabs his wrist his pulse is there but barely felt, and his skin is cold, too cold. Changkyun understands, then; death is sleep’s half-brother, and it is coming. But the man won’t wake-up, won’t open his eyes, won’t react to Changkyun pushing and pulling. And so, Changkyun does what he does best. He lays down next to the bed of flowers, and he dreams.

 

**11.**

The dream is cold and dark. Empty. Changkyun’s standing on nothing, and he sees nothing, and he hears nothing. He feels nothing, too, but the ground is firm under his feet, and so, he takes a step.

There’s something in his pocket and light bursts when he takes it out, opening his palm; a present, glow worms lightning a way he’s eager to follow, this time, and his cautious steps turn to hurried strides with the flight of the insects. They lead and he follows, follows them until their light expands to embrace all that there is. A room he knows well, smelling of rain and forests, books of all kind and blooming flowers clothing its walls. There is no bed of white blossoms, this time, no funeral wreath adorning dark hair; there’s just a couch, and a man curled up on it, reading.

The man doesn’t notice him, not until Changkyun calls him by his name, the first sound in this silent dream. His eyes are dark when he raises them to the intruder, and his lips part on a silent question Changkyun hurries to answer.

“Kihyun, I came to get you.”

“Get me? Get me from where?”

“Here. You shouldn’t be here.”

The man looks around with longing eyes, and it’s with a smile that he answers.

“I think I should. I have all that I need.”

“This is a dream, it’s not – it’s not real, you can’t… You can’t stay.”

“I can, and I will. It is better, like this.”

“Better than what?”

“Don’t you like it?”

Slender fingers waving, embracing the room in a soft gesture. The voice, again, low and barely heard.

“I like it, here. It is safe. There are books and flowers, and it is enough.”

“What do you need to be safe from?”

The eyes open wide, and Changkyun finds fear within them, sorrow, too, but most of all, a crushing loneliness.

“Everything. When I step outside I am filled with ice, and I see only hatred.”

“But some things love you. There’s a tree in a field of bones, and shadows singing soft songs. And there is flowers, too, they weaved a crown for you, as you lay dying.”

“I am dying?”

“You will. I met you when we were both dead in a dream. And I was sent back, I was sent back to get you, because some things out there do not want you to waste away.”

Kihyun tilts his head in an almost familiar gesture, and Changkyun is reminded of a dark omen, of burnt rubber and warm hands. There is another thing who does not wish this man to pass.

“What kind of dream?”

“I died. And then, I dreamt, for a long time. And I was here, in the dream, and I became part of the house, like a the breeze that slithers in when the windows are left opened. I stayed, for a very long time. And then, the tree showed me. I went up the stairs to a small room with a lot of books, and you were there, too. At first, I thought you were sleeping. You were resting on a bed of white flowers looking like so many bells, and I thought you were sleeping, but then I realized that you were dead.”

“Foxgloves.”

“What?”

“The bell flowers, they were foxgloves. They offer protection.”

Changkyun stays silent as the man straightens on the couch, eyes darting around the room.

“It is not a bad way to go. I know all dreams end. I am not scared, I will wake up in the field of bones, under the yew tree.”

“And you will become part of the field yourself, a pile of bones crushed by time, ashes scattered and forgotten.”

The man seems to think it over for the span of two heartbeats, before looking back at Changkyun with renewed interest.

“How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“Death.”

Changkyun almost smiles, the words an echo of earlier ones. Though this time, his answer is different. Another truth for another man.

“It is lonely, mostly. I felt nothing at first, not until I found you. Then, it was just grief.”

“Why would you grieve me?”

“It feels like I’ve known you for a long, long time. For as long as I was stuck in the dream, maybe, and it was centuries. I was so worried, when I woke-up. I tried to find you. There was so much sorrow and so much loneliness, and you were dead, and there was nothing I could do except cry. I am here, so that what I saw doesn’t come to pass.”

The man brought his knees up again his chest as Changkyun was talking, and he looks small, like this, a barefoot ghost hiding amongst books and flowers. Maybe he is right, Changkyun thinks in that moment. Maybe it is too hard, out there, too much hatred and too much loneliness for people like them. Maybe it is better here, safe and sheltered, waiting for a kind end. But Kihyun’s skin is of a sickly white when it should be golden, his eyes too dark for any light to survive in their depths. The ice he spoke of is there, ensnaring his heart and numbing his mind. Here, there is no kindness to be found.

“Would you go back with me?”

“We don’t know each other.”

“Not yet, but we will. It will be fine, Kihyun.”

“What if it isn’t? What if it is still the same, the cold and the loneliness and the fear.”

Changkyun sits down then, and Kihyun shifts, angling his body towards him as his flowers do, straining for warmth and kindness and companionship. Changkyun knocks shoulders with him, a simple gesture meant to reassure, and Kihyun settles against his side.

“I’ll stay with you.”

“You will?”

“Yeah. I’ll stay with you. You can teach me the names of your flowers and when it’s cold we can sit like this until it passes. You can tell me about the shadows and the yew tree, and I’ll tell you about dreams and bike rides at night. You don’t have to go out much, you can stay in the house where it’s safe, it will take care of you. I will tell you about the world when I come, about the good and the bad things. You will still have books and flowers and a couch to sink into, but you will be warm and golden and it can be nice, it can be okay.”

There’s a weight on his shoulder and when Changkyun looks, Kihyun closed his eyes. He seems peaceful, like this, so Changkyun doesn’t say anything more. He just waits.

“It’s a promise?”

“It is.”

They fall silent, and a century again passes. And then Kihyun shifts, stretching like a cat as his feet find the ground, sinking in an old carpet of fading colors.

“I will trust you, then. But it’s been so long. I don’t know the way out anymore.”

“I don’t know it, either. I usually just wake-up. This seems different, though.”

“Already letting me down?”

Changkyun laughs as he pushes Kihyun, who goes sprawling to the other end of the couch in a show of theatrics. He stays there, though, not getting up, and his stare is absent when it settles on Changkyun.

“Maybe it is already too late, for me.”

There’s an echo of panicked words, twisting hideously in his belly. _Changkyun, I’m always too late_ , and maybe it is true, maybe it is too late and there’s no way out for barefoot ghosts full of icy fears. But it can’t be, all this cannot be for nothing, and so Changkyun grabs Kihyun by the wrist, pulling the man after him as he strides towards the door.

“What are you hoping for?”

“Someone to call my name.”

“What?”

“Just, walk. You need to walk or you will disappear.”

Kihyun falls silent, stumbling after Changkyun as they go from room to room, and the house has no beginning nor end. They might have been walking for hours, or just a few minutes, when Changkyun starts to hear it. A smooth voice he came to know well, calling his name. There’s warmth, too, spilling in his being, and he hadn’t realized how cold he was until now.

“Come, this way.”

“How do you know?”

“You don’t hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“It’s fine. Just, don’t let go of me.”

They pass a door and it’s only darkness again, but it isn’t cold, this time, it isn’t cold and the voice is still there, louder, and as Changkyun opens his mouth to call after it, light explodes in front of his eyes.

 

**12.**

“You heard me.”

The hand in his is solid and warm, gripping his fingers with almost too much force.

“I did. You showed me the way back.”

Wonho smiles his face-splitting grin, and warmth spills in Changkyun’s stiff limbs. He tries to sit up, fails as he falls back against Wonho’s chest. He elects to stay there, worn out and pliant, and Wonho doesn’t move as Changkyun closes his eyes to listen to the other’s steady heart beat against his ear.

“How long…”

“Too long. I came in when the light outside started to change, and you were so deeply asleep I thought I couldn’t reach you.”

“You held my hand.”

“I did.”

“It brought me warmth. And I knew I had to follow your voice, I knew it would bring us back. Maybe, if I had followed it the first time, it would have, too. I don’t think you’re a dark omen, anymore. I think you’re hope, and a chance, for those who know how to listen.”

Careful fingers tread in his hair and Changkyun burrows closer, letting out a sigh that takes with it the last of his fears.

“How is he?”

Changkyun feels Wonho move against him, straining, but his eyelids feel too heavy to lift, and so he waits.

“He still sleeps, but it is different. It isn’t the little death that it was. I think if you would call him, he would wake up. You have to, I don’t know his name anymore.”

Changkyun finally opens his eyes, and it is true that the light changed outside the window, a soft dawn that paints the room in pink hues bringing life to Kihyun’s too-pale skin. Changkyun sits up against Wonho, sinking his weight in his side as he brings a hand to the sleeper’s face, carefully brushing dark hair out of his eyes. He takes off the wreath, too, and the flowers untie under his touch, falling to the floor like scented snow.

“Kihyun. Kihyun, it’s time to wake-up.”

There’s a stir, a soft sigh, and in a suspended moment the sleeper opens his eyes. Wonho’s breath catches, and Changkyun just smiles, as Kihyun drags himself out of too-deep a slumber.

“You’re there.”

“I told you I would be. I told you I would stay with you.”

A slow blink, a deep breath, and Kihyun’s timid smile spilling on his lips.

“People say a lot of things. Very few keep their word.”

“I always do. This can be the first thing you learn about me.”

The smile grows and it’s nice, Changkyun thinks, something genuine and rarely seen, something precious.

“Who is this?”

Kihyun’s dark eyes turn to Wonho and the latter shifts, elbowing Changkyun for help.

“He’s a friend. He helped me find you, and he helped me find my way back.”

Kihyun stares for too long, until he slowly nods and gazes back to Changkyun. He looks sickly, the latter thinks, sickly and grim, something weighting on him until his shoulders bent. But then the smile is back, a glimpse of something that was, or something that could be, and it is decided, then. Changkyun will keep his promise.

 

**13.**

Something happens, when they step outside of the library. A ripple through the house – maybe they’re not the only ones coming back to life. There’s shadows, pooled at their feet or tangling in Kihyun’s too-long hair. Plants that stir at their approach, flower buds blooming fast, and the house is young, then, young and warm.

Kihyun leads them to the kitchen with gestures slow and tedious. Changkyun knows the way, and it feels too real, a strange kind of déjà-vu that unsettles him and quiets his steps. He sits where he sat so many times in a dream of death, amongst rotten leaves and dark shadows. But the kitchen is bright now, bright and warm, and it smells of honey and cinnamon. Kihyun stands at the stove, supporting himself with one hand on the counter as he puts a kettle on. He’s singing to himself, something soft and barely there, absent-minded, really, as he focuses on other tasks.

Wonho takes a seat next to Changkyun and Changkyun stares, trying to assess the reality of the other’s being. After so long a time spent dreaming, everything feels strange; there’s a screen before his eyes and maybe were he to reach out, everything would crumble into dust. So he does reach out, and the flesh he touches is warm and real. He leaves his hand there, on Wonho’s wrist, fingers lightly pressing until he feels a pulse. It is reassuring, somehow, something real and tangible to remind him that he is awake.

He jumps a little when Kihyun puts a steaming cup in front of him, and Wonho’s free hand clasps on his knee. Kihyun’s smiling, slightly sheepish, and puts another cup in front of Wonho before taking his own place with a wince and a yawn. The drink smells of something strong that Changkyun cannot quite place, and Kihyun swirls it in his cup before taking a careful sip. It is yet too warm to drink.

“Anise. It keeps nightmares at bay.”

“I’m not sleeping for another year, I think.”

Kihyun laughs as he puts his cup back on the table, but the stare that falls on Changkyun is deeply serious.

“How did you know my name? At the time it felt normal, but –“

“It’s him. Wonho, I mean. He… He just knows. When people are going to die soon, he just knows their name, if he’s in the same place. I think he… I thought he was some sort of…”

Changkyun’s words trail into silence; still Wonho nods in confirmation as the dark eyes settle on him, slightly narrowed, and Kihyun’s words are careful when he speaks next.

“An unseelie?”

Wonho’s eyes widen as he drags them away from Changkyun to settle on their host’s face.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re an unseelie, aren’t you?”

“What is it?”

Kihyun tilts is head, and his eyes close for something longer than a blink as he stifles a yawn.

“I slept for so long, and yet… An unseelie is what you are, I think. Something of the night, and you were born under a purple sky, weren’t you? Who gave you your name?”

“I chose it for myself.”

“What is your oldest memory?”

“I don’t know. I opened my eyes and I was on a road, and I was waiting for someone.”

“Who?”

“I forgot their name. It was a long time ago, and I only knew it for a little while.”

Kihyun nods as if all his questions were answered, and his eyes are kind when he looks at his guests.

“An unseelie and a dreamer. I understand, now, how you could find me.”

The warm hand tenses on Changkyun’s knee and he lets go of Wonho’s wrist to link their fingers together. He looks at the liquid inside his cup when he speaks, staring at the light reflecting there.

“I don’t understand anything. Wonho’s an unseelie? Like, a fairy?”

Kihyun’s laughs turns into a cough, and his voice is hoarse when he answers.

“Not a fairy. Those don’t exist. Or, well, not the way they were described. But there’s… things. Just like you came back from the dead to walk in dreams, or how flowers grant me their strength. Things like the yew tree and the shadows.”

He turns to Wonho then, and his face softens as he speaks.

“Things like you, springing out of the night to ride ahead of death, as a warning or a dark omen; the choice is yours to make. Sometimes, dead souls are given a new purpose.”

“But I don’t… I don’t want to. It’s been so long. I think I am very old, but also very young, and I know nothing but I know everything. And I’m alone, always alone, and this is the hardest part. I know people for a little while at the worst possible time, and I forget everything when their hand slips from mine.”

Kihyun nods silently, placing his mug back on the table with a soft clatter. Under the table, Changkyun’s fingers tighten on Wonho’s hand, and the words spills from his lips before he can retain them.

“My hand didn’t slip from yours. Not – not the second time. I heard you, and I… I made a promise, and I think I can make the same one to you.”

“What promise?”

“I can stay with you. You don’t have to be alone, not anymore.”

Wonho falls silent as he absently stares ahead with weary eyes. And then he slowly nods, a grin spreading on his full lips, looking back at Changkyun.

“Yeah, okay. I can take you on a ride, sometimes.”

A soft thump interrupts them and when they look back, Kihyun fell asleep at the table, hair spilling over the clear wood, fingers limp around his cup.

“Should we…”

Wonho nods, easily lifting Kihyun in his arms. He’s too thin, way too thin, and the dream lasted too long for his body to withstand. Changkyun guides them through this house he knows well, this house stirring back to life as its heart starts beating again. Floors creaks and wall breathes, shadows spilling out of dark corners as small plants bloom, their leaves brushing them as they pass, in thankfulness, maybe; they brought their treasure back.

“We should find him something to eat, make sure everything is alright…”

“Are you?”

“Mh?”

“Alright.”

Changkyun stares at the man Wonho laid on the bed, marveling at the sense of familiarity falling over him. Something within him is overflowing, something of relief and deep affection. Something was missing, something he long searched for without knowing. Belonging, maybe. A place of kindness and acceptance.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

 

**14.**

There’s still a nagging fear at the back of his mind, though, something with sharp teeth piercing his skin. Changkyun falls asleep with caution, most often than not gripping the warm hand of Wonho, looking for his voice to guide him back. His nights are still full of dreams with muddled meanings, and he waits for the purple sky, for the yew tree to call him back, now that he did what he had to.

Sometimes when he needs to sleep without seeing, Kihyun lowers a cup in front of him, a dark liquid smelling strongly of anise swirling inside. Anise and lavender, he learns, and these become his flowers, Kihyun tending to them for him, for the nights he spends in the house, safe and blind to his dreams. It becomes a routine of theirs, Changkyun showing to Kihyun’s doorstep with tired eyes hiding behind a smile. Kihyun opens his kitchen to him and they huddle together over steaming cups of tea. True to his word, Changkyun tells Kihyun about the world. About the bad things but mostly the good, about bike rides at night, where he holds onto Wonho for dear life, shrieking like a ghoul as he stands on the footrests, the wind whipping his hair making him fly and forget.

Kihyun stays in the house where it’s safe, and he tells Changkyun about his books and his flowers, about the shadows and the yew tree, neither good nor evil, neither warm nor cold. His skin turns golden as his body warms, and his sharp features soften with the roundness of his cheeks. But most of all he remains gentle and kind, always, and the feeling of affection blooming in Changkyun’s belly soon resolves itself in a deep sort of love.

It is another kind of love altogether that binds him to Wonho. Something precious he buries under his heart where it shall remain, hidden and safe. On their wild rides through the night he plasters himself against the man’s back and wishes to melt into him, slip between his ribs and disappear there altogether. It is strange, this need to touch, to fit himself against his body while adrenaline rushes through him. The night is theirs and they don’t talk much, they ride until the light changes, dawn chasing out the darkness of their world. Wonho brings him home, then, and they fall asleep huddled together, Changkyun gripping Wonho’s hand as if he could pull him in his dreams.

They wake up tangled in each other and Changkyun pretends to still sleep, stealing warmth and companionship. He knows that they fit, somehow, as if a long time ago he had watched the pieces fall away. Wonho is kind, kind and afraid and there’s nothing to be done for the sadness in his eyes. Changkyun still tries. Changkyun makes him laugh and shares awkward meals and brings him flowers he finds in Kihyun’s house. An eryngo for traveler’s luck, as Wonho is a wanderer, feverfews and foxgloves for protection, a bunch of forget-me-nots Kihyun tells him are for love, love and memories, but this he doesn’t repeat. Wonho keeps all of them, stuck to his lapel or weaved in his hair. He looks like a summer dream, and for a while things are weightless and easy. Changkyun forgets some of his fears, until he opens his eyes to glow worms on a dark path.

 

**15.**

The yew tree is old, then; older. Twisting branches that reached to the firmament fall towards the earth, a vast canopy shielding Changkyun from a sunless sky. He sits cross-legged on a bed of moss, and now he knows – power and protection, Kihyun told him in his gentle voice. He feels it under his fingers, smooth, neither warm nor cold. Neither good nor evil, Kihyun had said, and Changkyun looks over the field of bones, some old and some new, crushed to ashes or polished by the winds, a sanctuary of death and forgotten memories.

He closes his eyes, listening to his own heartbeat, until it is replaced by familiar songs riding on the wind. The shadows, pooling at his feet in gracious swirls, and he recognizes them, now – they are friends, almost, grateful and protective. Maybe he doesn’t need to be scared. Maybe this is a place of safety, for him and other souls that came and went. He looks up at the tree, and his voice feels raw in his throat.

“I want to thank you. I don’t know if I am here because this is the end, but if it is, I am still grateful. I think I was happy, for a short while. The house was young and warm, and I loved it. I loved him, too, him and his books and his flowers, and the shadows crowning his head.”

“I gave flowers to a wanderer and I loved him too, another kind of love that grew in the dark hours, and I buried it under my heart like a treasure. He showed me the way back to myself and for that I am grateful, and I hope I lifted some of his sadness, so something better can bloom in its place, even if I am not here to see it.”

“I was on borrowed time, and it is sufficient to know that I was loved. It is sufficient that I knew kindness, that I was accepted. There are good things in the world, and I hope I was one of them. I hope I did well.”

Amongst the moss the yellow flowers grew again and Changkyun thumbs their petals with careful fingers, shuddering as a breeze goes through him. He looks up, and the tree seems to bend towards him. He could reach it, were he to lift a hand.

“I thank you, for everything.”

Another gust of wind tangles his hair, and it is stronger, this time, full of voices and a thousand words he cannot understand. But somehow their meaning inscribes itself in his mind, and he smiles as he falls back into the bed of moss, sinking until his body disappears under yellow flowers and white ashes.

 

**16.**

Changkyun wakes-up to wide eyes and panicked words. Wonho’s breath catches as Changkyun opens his eyes, and before the dreamer can speak he’s smothered against a strong chest, hands moving on his skin as if to assert the corporeality of his body.

“Shit, you wouldn’t wake up, and you were barely breathing, and I thought – I thought maybe that was it, maybe you were back in the field of bones and you couldn’t hear me anymore, and…”

“I was.”

“What?”

Wonho frames Changkyun’s face with his hands as he gets it away from his chest, eyes searching his features as if some kind of answer laid there.

“I was back in the field, and the tree was there, older than I had ever seen it. And I talked to it. I thanked him.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For Kihyun. For – for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, you.”

Changkyun leans back, grabbing at a stray flower in Wonho’s hair and twirling it carefully between his fingers. He stares at it rather than at Wonho’s face; it is easier, this way.

“I told the tree of you, of a wanderer to whom I gave flowers. I told the tree how I…”

Changkyun’s voice trails off, and the flower in his hand falls, a blue dot on white sheets. He stares, until Wonho picks it up, putting it back in his hair.

“Forget-me-not.”

Changkyun lifts his head, and there’s a shy smile dancing on Wonho’s lips.

“I know what they mean. I… I asked Kihyun, and he told me.”

“He told you, uh.”

Wonho nods, and his hand find Changkyun’s, fingers tangling in each other. Changkyun stare until his eyes go out of focus, and Wonho’s voice sounds faraway to his ears.

“Do you mean it? I put them in my hair, and they stayed blooming. I thought it must have meant that… That it was true.”

Changkyun bites his lips and thinks of the treasure below his heart, of the feeling bursting under his skin on wild rides at night, of warm hands and a gentle voice. There’s infinite sadness in Wonho’s dark eyes but there’s light, too, shaking and unsure, and maybe it could bloom into something better. Changkyun looks up, then, eyes searching for reassurance, but there’s no doubt in the words that leave his lips.

“Yeah, it is true. I gave you eryngo and feverfews, foxgloves and forget-me-nots, and it was all out of love. When we ride I wish I could disappear into you, and when we wake I pretend I am still asleep so the moment doesn’t end.”

Slowly, Wonho’s lips part on a face-splitting grin and he tugs lightly on Changkyun’s hand, until the latter falls into him, boneless and easy. Changkyun’s words comes muffled, spoken into Wonho’s chest.

“I told the tree I didn’t mind if it was the end, but I did, I did so much, when I thought of you I felt so sad I thought there was nothing left in me but grief. The tree knew, it did, and it talked to me, and again it sent me back.”

“What did it tell you?”

Wonho’s warm around him, and Changkyun burrows closer, closing his eyes.

“There are no words for it. But I felt weightless, and full of light, and it is going to be okay.”

“Will you still get me flowers?”

“Yeah, I will. I will get you anything you want.”

“It’s okay. I have enough with just this.”

Changkyun laughs, hands clutching at Wonho’s shirt, and he smells like summer, like soft days spent in the grass, weightless and easy.

 

**17.**

_Light breaks where no sun shines;_

_Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart_

_Push in their tides;_

_And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads,_

_The things of light_

_File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones._

_-Dylan Thomas_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/BlanquetteAO3) and [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/BlanquetteAO3) if you couldn't tell I'm starved for interaction


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